


Forever Young

by AdrenalineRevolver



Category: Newsies - All Media Types
Genre: Light Angst, M/M, Soft Spot Conlon, Soulmates, We're all Soft here, i'm SOFT, immortality kind of?, this is soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:27:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21538228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdrenalineRevolver/pseuds/AdrenalineRevolver
Summary: When you mature your heart stops beating, preserving you in time until you meet your soulmate. For some this is quick, for others it takes so long they're tempted to give up on the whole thing.
Relationships: Spot Conlon/Racetrack Higgins
Comments: 19
Kudos: 130





	1. The Immortal King

His heart would never beat. He knew that by now. 

He began to suspect that might be the case while entrenched at Brooklyn Heights. All the men and most of the boys alongside him had beating hearts and people waiting on them. He set the creeping fear aside for the moment. The general needs him to be focused on pushing out the English. 

It was war that brought it to his attention again. War that he’s selling papers about rather than fighting. He was too young to be drafted and he may always be. Being sent off to face down a gatling gun, an interesting reward for finding your soulmate. At least some good for him could possibly come from this. 

It occurs to him then that he’s been working this job for twenty-seven years now. Selling papers in Brooklyn. Wait, how old was he even now? He was...He was naturally sixteen when he met the general. That would make him-

No. No he couldn’t be. His math has to be wrong. There was no way he was a hundred and one years old and still hadn’t met the person who would be perfect for him. 

Unless there was no person. 

He was one of those. 

The immortals that people whispered about with fear and pity. Forever young. Forever pretty. Forever unloved. It was only a few centuries prior that they’d been burned at the stake or buried alive for fear that they were undead monsters. 

Spot could understand the hatred. Here are these beings whose hearts will never begin to beat like everyone else’s. They’ll always be there unless killed. Surely something must be evil about them. 

He knew better than that of course. 

He met a young woman a few decades ago who was simply uninterested in love and had long since dedicated her life to collecting knowledge. “Walkin’ library a’ Alexandria” or “Alex” for short. In the many years that they’d lived together he’d come to see her as something like a sister. She loved very deeply, just not in a romantic sort of way. 

She was somewhere in South America now, and likely would be for a lifetime. But time is relative to them. In what will feel like a few months she’ll come bursting through the door with stories of the people she’d met and wonderful things she’d seen. She once said that learning was her soulmate and like always she was completely right.

But Spot isn’t like her. He truly does want to fall in love. He just supposes he’s unlovable. It’s not hard to see why. He’s a grouch. He’s overprotective. Now he even sounds strange when he’s not paying attention because the way your average Brookline speaks has changed around him. 

It’s hard to shake the strange looks he gets when he occasionally pronounces his “r”s. It’s not his fault that he wasn’t raised around damn Englishmen and their weird new accents. 

Even trying to lay low it a bit harder. He’ll spend a few years; no more than five, working and then he’d have to leave before anyone realizes he probably wasn’t ever going to find anyone. If he has enough money on him he’d take a year’s worth of college classes, the history department will actually pay him just to do things like read old letters out loud. It’s strange to go through the personal affects of dead men when the others in the room had no possible connection to them. But if he doesn’t have enough for classes he’d simply travel. 

It’s both interesting and isolating to watch a nation change. Small towns become cities. Grasslands become small towns. Children that you could swear live in that home are buried in the cemetery and only occasionally visited by their grandchildren. He usually tries to visit somewhere new. That way he can’t compare it to the last time he’d been there. 

Somehow people like him know what he is. Maybe it’s in his eyes? Little words he uses? The smallest interaction can occasionally turn cryptic and bizarre. 

He’s in a bar in Canada when a young man makes eye contact with him. His French accent is thick when he leans over to whisper. 

“Strange, no? Those who wish it rarely get it. Those who fear it are cursed with it.” He takes a drag of his cigar, a disgusting habit it makes the whole room smell like smoke, and leans in closer. “You are still faithful to an idea aren’t you? I gave up when I saw the English cart away the only woman I would give this eternity to. She hasn’t even been beautified.”

It’s obvious that he’s flirting; Spot knew that some people without soulmates did this. Met up in seedy bars and had wild flings before going their separate ways to find another. He doesn’t judge them for it but it also holds no real appeal to him.

He finds himself dropping all pretenses and speaking the way he would if he was dragged back in time. It was easy to do when the other person was even older. “Perhaps you were not meant to give an eternity to her but a lifetime. I only know of one woman both dragged away by English and deserving of such praise from the Catholic church and she was at most nineteen when she died. Though that itself could be wrong. She may not have reached the age in which her heart had even stalled. It varies for some. I was young, only sixteen to be precise, but I was considered to be an adult by the law and had no parents looking after me. Today most stop around eighteen unless they find themselves orphaned very young. If she is who I think she is she did have parents, she also had devoted herself to the idea of chastity and god. You could have been speaking to your soulmate and not felt a thing because she simply wasn’t ready.”

“The cruelest possibility.” He sighs deeply.

“Why would it be? It would mean that you had a soulmate. A soulmate that was very explicit about the things she wanted to see in this world. So I’d imagine it would be easy to honor her.” He takes a sip of his whiskey. 

“She would detest what I am.” The man stares at his own glass. 

“Perhaps she is still your soulmate then. Forcing you to better yourself without even being alive.” Spot shrugs lightly. 

The man laughs and roughly pats him on the back. “Here I thought you would be in bed with me by sundown, not picking my heart apart at the bar.”

“Any more and I’ll afraid I’ll have to start charging in drinks.” He smiles and raises his glass in a little toast.

The man “forgets” his cane when he eventually leaves. It seems to be a common trait among them. If you make some sort of connection with another like yourself you leave them a bit of yourself when you go. Nothing is usually said of the exchange but Spot finds that he appreciates the small things he ends up with more than anything he could buy. 

Making his way to the top is more of an accident than it seems. It’s the year they started construction on the Brooklyn Bridge so it’s 1870 when he has to overthrow the previous leader. 

Stitches, as the kid went by, had become crueler than could be allowed. Charging the children for their safety and breaking fingers if they refused to pay was only the tip of the iceberg based on what Spot was hearing. So he decides to have a bit of a chat.

“What are you doing?” He sees no reason to be subtle, as always he was the second in command. It was his job to be frank with the leader. “Do you need money? If you’re in debt you can just ask for help. You don’t need to put the squeeze on kids.”

Stitches laughs, it’s a vicious little sound. “You sound just as old as you are. Get back to work before I tell everyone that you’re Heartless.” 

Spot stares silently and weighs his options when it occurs to him that he’s somehow been found out. He wants to beat him to death with his bare hands. But he can’t fight all the kids in the building. There are simply too many and they would only be defending their leader. “Yes sir.” Is all he says.

“Sir.” Stitches grins. “I like that. Maybe you’re worth keeping around. If only for a while.” 

It’s not that unlike the first time he took part in a revolution. First he makes his own safehouses and back up plans in case things go south when he brings up the idea. Then he quietly goes around explaining to certain kids that they don’t have to put up with the abuse, that bad leaders have been overthrown in the past and will be again. 

Of course he knows the kids he choses will agree with him, they’re the ones that are just scared enough to need a way out but just brave enough to be willing to keep a secret. So they start to make plans. More importantly he teaches them everything he can remember about defending yourself in hand-to-hand combat. Fortunately it's not something you easily forget.

Most of the kids want something big, a big brash declaration and fight. Spot knows better. It would be more exciting but it would get people killed. Stitches was the type to punish mutiny with death if he had the chance. What’s better is to send a message. 

Spot rounds up the next two strongest kids he can get his hands on and creeps into Sitches’ room. He has to fight the urge to laugh when he realizes the guy is unarmed. What sort of idiot acts in a way that begs to wake up with a viper in your bed and doesn’t even sleep with a knife? 

Spot springs on him and holds the pillow over his face. It drowns out the cries for help. Sitches doesn’t realize what he should do is hold his breath and play dead. Instead he thrashes and gasps for air that isn’t going to come. Even if he manages to get a sound out it's muffled by the pillow. It only takes around a minute to render him unconscious. 

“Tie his hands and feet.” Spot orders as he puts the gag and blindfold in place. Stitches is a creep, but he’d rather not kill him. The boys follow his orders without hesitation. It worries him but there isn’t time.

They take him down to the docks, it’s not long before he starts to try and thrash his way out. Panic no doubt setting in. 

“It ain’t gonna work.” He explains calmly.

He hears his name hissed out along with a tone that sounds like an order.

“Yes sir.” He grins and sets Stitches down. 

The boys watch as Spot ties a rope to Stitches’ hands and feet. 

“Toss him out.” He says simply.

The boys pause, wide eyed. Spot likes them more and more. They weren’t about to murder on command, they were still people even when obedience has been beat into them by Stitches.

“You heard me.” He winks and holds his end of the rope up to show them his plan. “Toss the trash out.”

Realization crosses over their features and they pick up a begging, screaming Stitches. 

Spot lets him thrash in the water for a moment before reeling him back in. “Feel that?” He asks as he pulls the gag off to make sure the little rat can breathe. “It’s mercy. Might not get it twice.”

“P-please.” He stammers out while shaking. Spot almost feels bad for him, almost.

“You ain’t done nothin’ to deserve it. I should just sink you…but, I’m feelin’ generous today. I’m going to cut you loose. Then you’re gonna’ skip town. Don’t really care what you do after you leave. Work the railroad, work cattle, join the church; just remember that the next “Heartless” you cross probably’ll just carve that thing out of your chest.” He takes out a knife and pokes it against Stitches’ chest.

He nods violently. “I’ll be gone. I promise. You’ll never see me again.”

“Oh I know.” Spot cuts his feet free. “Take him to the edge of Brooklyn before untying him completely. If he gives you any real trouble I’ll be waiting right here.”

By the time Spot makes it back to the lodging house the kids have had a vote and made him their leader. They even have a little crown for him made of left over newspaper.

He figures he should tell them the truth right away. 

“You all realize that I’m not going to age out right? I don’t…I don’t have a soulmate. I’ll be here forever.” He expects a negative reaction. There’s some surprise, yes. But then the kids seem excited. Thrilled even. Their new ‘king’ is immortal; they never have to worry about another leader being cruel to them again.

He wants to fall in love one day. But maybe he can be like Alex. Maybe Brooklyn is his soulmate.


	2. Cride

“Wait you’ve been sellin’ in Brooklyn?” Romeo asks with a growing sense of horror. He looks Racetrack over as if he's to make sure Race is still in once piece. 

“Yeah, and?” Racetrack grabs his hat and does his best to ignore the looks. 

“You do know who runs that place right?” Specs lowers his voice to a whisper. “Spot Conlon.” 

“I hear he’s a thousand years old.” Albert tries to snatch his cigar. 

“A thousand?” Finch huffs. “I heard he choked Attila the Hun to death cause the guy pissed him off.”

“No that was that phay-fey…old king in Egypt who tried to have him executed for not bowing low enough.” Buttons sounds legitimately terrified. 

“Supposedly the only guy that ever beat him in a fight was that Gilga-whatever guy from the Meso-somethin’.” Elmer just shakes his head. “Davey’ll know the names, it was in all the papers a while back.”

“So?” Racetrack chews on the end of his cigar. Sometime it took people a long long time to find their soulmate. Sometimes they never did. His mother used to whisper stories long forgotten in a language long dead. She told him about mother goddesses, gods of the seasons, and spirits of all kind. Gods of love, the dead, and the sea. Everything had someone. She told stories about merciless Vikings and the arrival of missionaries. That his sister, supposedly cursed for being born to parents that weren’t soulmates, met hers just days after her heart stilled. Her family still lives in Ireland though they don’t have any idea who Racetrack is; it got too painful for his mother to continue being around them after about four generations. 

“So? He’s Heartless. You know what they say about them.” Finch points out.

“You know what, I do. I know what they do to ‘em to.” It was a constant fear that someone would kill her for what she was. It was illness instead, a rare fate for people like her. They can’t overheat from a fever, they can’t get illnesses of the heart or circulation, but they can have their lungs eaten away by the damn air in the textile mill they’re forced to work in. She took shifts from girls who were already sick until she dropped. 

Racetrack remembers his childhood always having some coughing young woman in their one room apartment. Sometimes she’s a redhead like his mother, funny and naturally flirty. Sometimes she has dark brown skin and insists that he proves he knows how to read every time she’s over, forcing him to learn to impress her. Occasionally both of her parents are from a place she calls Macau and she’s eager to teach whatever he’s willing to learn. 

That’s the girl that brought him to the lodging house when his mother died. 

Heartless. It was a shitty term for them. He may have only known her for a little while but there was never a more giving, caring, and loving woman than his mother. She was far from heartless. 

“He don’t mean it like that.” Al sighs. He knew more about what the score was; less than Jack, but more than most of the kids. 

“Yeah well,” It’s impulsive but the words tumble out of his mouth before he can stop himself. “I’m gonna meet him. Maybe even spend the night in Brooklyn.” 

A look of terror sweeps over the guys, Albert included. 

“He’ll soak you! Sellin’ at Sheepshead is dangerous enough!” Buttons practically squeaks.

“I can’t believe he even lets you do that!” Elmer nervously ran his fingers through his hair. 

“He must not know yet!” Buttons quickly shook his head as he was starting to work himself up.

“He always knows. He knows damn near everything!” Finch insists. 

“I’m gonna spend the night in Brooklyn.” Race decides. “In the lodging house.” He figures he'll have to sleep on the floor or share a bunk with someone but it'll be worth it to prove his point. Even if the guy is thousands of years old there's nothing wrong with that. There's nothing wrong with him. Or his mother for that matter.

Buttons actually starts to tear up. “Please don’t die.” 

“The whole damn point is I ain’t gonna!” He doesn’t mean to snap but he was going to do this. No matter what. 

Mercifully, the guys let it drop. Probably quietly writing him off for dead. 

Racetrack is terrified beyond it even setting in properly. The Brooklyn lodging house looks like a fortress. The brick building has a wooden fence on top with what looks like medieval-style arrow loops cut into the sides at about eye level. There’s a makeshift bridge that connects the closest two buildings with the lodging house as well. Why do they even hang out by the docks? 

“What do you want Racer? You’re allowed to sell at Sheepshead but you ain’t supposed to be here.” Hotshot strolls out of the alley looking like some sort of nightmare. Bastard probably waits there in the shadows when he knows someone is coming so he can scare the life out of them. Brooklyn’s second in command was a weird position. They do a lot of the day to day running of things and it allows Spot to be this sort of mythical figure that only really shows up when someone is about to get beat.

“Wanna talk to Spot.” Might as well cut to the chase. 

Hotshot raises an eyebrow. “What for? Got a message for him?”

“No.” He shrugs. 

“Then why you here?” Hotshot folds his arms and Race can’t help but notice that they’re probably half again as thick as his. If this goes south it probably won't be Spot that ends up killing him. 

“Just wanna talk.” He shoves his hands into his pockets, not exactly sure what else to do with them. 

Hotshot looks to the closest kid who looks just as confused as he does. “Why? Trying to prove somethin’?”

“Yeah.” Might as well be honest. 

Hotshot rolls his eyes. “Ya know usually people uh, elaborate.” 

“Why should I?” Elaborate, who the hell uses elaborate in normal conversation? Guess you can say whatever lofty nonsense you want when you look like you can tie a guy into a knot if they call you out for it. 

That seemed to piss him off, not too much though. Just enough that Race might actually make some headway. “I otta soak you on principal.” 

“Why don’t you wait and let your boss soak me?” He grins, knowing that he’s got some sort of unwritten rule protecting him from unnecessary beatings in order to keep the peace between Manhattan and Brooklyn. "Save ya the energy and all that." 

Hotshot sighs and his shoulders slump. The simple change in posture takes him from terrifying guard to exhausted mother with one breath. Ah yes, the joys of childcare, Race could see it in his eyes. “You ain’t gonna fuck off are ya Racer?”

“Nah.” He could stand out here all day if he had to. 

“Fine.” Hotshot waves for him to follow him into the lodging house.


	3. Thousand Year Flower

Spot really only begins to think about time and soulmates again when he meets Hotshot. 

He has a lot of second-in-commands over the years but Hotshot ends up setting himself apart because he doesn’t treat Spot like some king or mythical creature. Hotshot treats him like a kid who happens to have a lot of experience. Hotshot doesn’t find it deeply unsettling if Spot is irrational about something; as far as Hotshot is concerned Spot has every right to be irrational as the other kids. 

He also firmly doesn’t believe that Spot is immortal. 

“Nah you just gotta take care of that thousand year flower.” He says as if it’s the simplest explanation in the world.

“What in the hell?” Spot usually manages to hide his confusion when he doesn’t get a phrase but what was a thousand year flower?

“Yeah, so my ma used to tell me about this story of this girl who was so worried she wouldn’t find a soulmate. So she went to this old witch and asked for her help. So the lady gave her a flower and said she had to plant it and look after it every day. Water it, keep bugs off it, all that good shit. So she did. And soon the whole damn mountainside was covered in these heart shaped flowers.” As he tells the story Hotshot can’t keep himself from doing the little hand gestures he uses when he tells littles bedtime stories.

“So she find em?” He was already invested.

“Well, for a thousand years she’d get up in the morning and look after that plant. To fill her time she began to play for it, read to it, entertain it with dance. One day news about how damn pretty the mountain was got back to the king. So he rode out to see it. His fuckin’ horse stomped the flower.” Hotshot continues.

“What?” He would have lost his mind and killed the bastard.

“Before the girl could kill him her heart started beating again. So did his. Never before had the country had a queen that was so great. She could entertain visitors to the palace herself, she had read everything written in the last thousand years, and she could grow plants from a stone. Most importantly everyone knew her brave enough to make an attempt on a king in full armor. She became that way over time, the time she had to wait.” He shrugs. “That’s why my ma used to just say that people like you were growin’ their thousand year flowers.”

“…Corny.” It sounds sweet though, the idea of there being some light at the end of the tunnel. 

“You’re plenty into corny shit.” Hotshot gives him a knowing grin. 

“Bastard.” He was right.

He’s actually a little…disappointed when Hotshot’s heart just stops on his 17th birthday. Hotshot just laughs when he mentions it. 

“Grow old with you? Boss, I can barely stand to spend eternity with you.” He playfully punches him in the shoulder. 

The implication is a lot. A shitload actually. There are some who do that. Spend their eternities with one or two others rather than on their own or floating from person to person. It’s an intimate thing. In some ways it means just as much as a soulmate, to some that would never have one it meant more. You choose them. 

“You alright?” Hotshot pauses. “Spot?” 

“Just tryin’ not to panic over the idea of seein’ your stupid face every morning for the rest of forever.” He quickly tries to recover.

Hotshot laughs loudly. “Well get used to it.” 

He and Hotshot rule things for about five years before one night Hotshot just doesn’t come home. 

Of course Spot goes looking for him. 

He finds him wrapped up in some guy, some Manhattan kid that hasn’t noticed him yet. 

“He’ll understand, it’s not like you can help it.” The mousey little thing has his hand on Hotshot’s chest as he whispers.

“He shouldn’t have ta. We agreed.” For a guy that just found his soulmate he seemed pretty torn up about it.

They hadn’t shook on it or anything, but it did seem like an unspoken agreement. One that was undoubtedly over if the pink dusting across Hotshot’s face is any indicator. Spot swears he can hear his damn heart beating. 

He’s not mad. He’s happy for the guy. He swears. 

“Hey,” The moment Spot speaks Hotshot jumps like he’s been shot. “You should head back soon. You can bring your guy if you want.”

“Spot, I-“ Hotshot glances at his soulmate and Spot recognizes the look. He’s already falling hard. 

“You two can have my room for the night.” He doesn’t really want to talk about it. The last thing he wants is to take away from this for Hotshot. So he just starts heading back. Alone. 

Hotshot has been insufferable since then. Not with his soulmate. Ike was a great guy and never caused too much of an issue, Hotshot was just one introduction away from trying to start Spot’s heart with his own damn hands. 

For every inch that Spot takes to pull away so that Hotshot could move on Hotshot clings to him tighter and tighter. Taking him to bars, theatres, anywhere and everywhere Hotshot can justify getting Spot around large crowds of people. On the bright side Spot was moving a lot of papers and the extra cash was really going to help out when winter rolls around. 

It’s beginning to get dangerous though. He has an image to keep up. The mythical rumors really help when negotiating and being seen out undercuts them. 

Which is why Spot has to close his eyes and pretend he isn’t hearing Hotshot when he calls from downstairs. 

“Hey boss! Got someone here who wants to meet you!” Hotshot’s voice rings clearly through the entire place.

He’s not doing this. Not right now. He scrambles out the window and onto the roof.


	4. Breuckelen

“I guess he ain’t here?” Racetrack was honestly a little relieved at the idea.

“That bastard. You wait here and don’t leave.” Hotshot runs back out the front door. 

Stranded in the Brooklyn lodging house. Fuck. 

He makes his way around-

Eventually he finds the leader’s room. A quick peak can’t hurt right? 

He slips inside and is floored. The guys are obviously wrong about Conlon’s age but there are things in here that are probably older than the country. 

The saber above the bed has to be. Yes, it’s carefully taken care of but Race has gotten to see a museum once or twice. He knows what a revolutionary war weapon looks like. 

He reaches out to touch it and as if on cue he hears a voice behind him. “Careful with that it’s sharp.”

He raises his hands quickly and freezes. “S-sorry! I uh. Was just waitin’ ta meet ya.”

“Hotshot find you somewhere?” If Hotshot was going to start dragging guys home they were going to need to talk about it.

Racetrack desperately wants to turn around but he’s already imagining a flintlock pointed at the back of his head and can’t move. “I found him. I uh, I wanted to prove that what they say about you ain’t right.”

Spot huffs. “That I’m a thousand years old? Killed kings and seduced queens? That I-“

“That there’s somethin’ wrong with you for not findin’ your soulmate. That ain’t right. Nothin’ wrong with you. Nothin’ was wrong with my ma. Nothin’ would be wrong with me if I never meet ‘em. Though it’s only been like two weeks so I think I got some time before people start whisperin’ about me. I just-“ Just as he feels like his stomach my burst with nerves he’s interrupted.

That actually grabs Spot’s interest. “Stop babbling and turn around.” 

Racetrack takes a deep breath and turns around. Before he can really register that the guy is cuter than he expects Race’s chest hurts. It’s not unbearable it’s just, uncomfortable. Loud thudding starts to ring in his ears making him wince before he adjusts to the return of the lost sound. 

Spot however falls to the ground clutching at his chest, pawing at it as if he’s dying and there’s something he can physically do. His eyes are wide and he’s very nearly panting. 

“H-hey now! Deep breaths. I heard it hurts more the longer you’ve waited.” He’d heard it described a hundred different ways, none of them pleasant. ‘Dying to live’ had always stuck out the most to him. 

“W-what?” He seems so confused. So afraid. No wonder, Race can remember seeing an old train put back on its tracks and the god-awful protest its wheels put up before it got moving again. This must be similar. 

Even though Racetrack barely knows anything about him he hates that look of wide-eyed terror, it doesn’t fit him. He drags Spot over to the bed and helps him up. “The longer your heart has been stopped the more it hurts when it beats again." 

“Beats..?” He shakes his head. “My heart doesn’t…” Spot sounds lightheaded, dizzy even. 

Racetrack takes Spot’s hand and lays his it on his chest and watches as Spot’s expression is carefully taken over by wonder. 

“How?” His breath is taken from him all over again as he searches Race’s gaze. 

“I guess you’se suck with me.” Racetrack lays next to him. “Should probably tell you my name, huh?”

Spot nods, not seeming to quite trust his voice.

Racetrack feels like he has to whisper for some reason. “Everyone calls me Racetrack, cause I sell by the racetrack. My name name’s Antonio Higgins. I got a middle name but-“

“It’s secret.” Spot can’t help but grin at the little superstition. “So fae can’t steal you away as easily. I didn’t think people did that anymore.” 

“My ma she was uh, real old. Remembered Christians coming to the island old. She tried ta keep some little things. I don’t know much about my dad. She said he was from some village near Milan and was funny. Don’t think he knew about me.” He couldn’t hate the guy. His mother probably never said anything. 

“My mother’s soulmate was another woman. The colonies didn’t accept it in the slightest. It’s still not the way it should be, but now at least you’re not in danger most days. Well, not the same kind.” Despite trying to relate Spot glances away, hinting that the topic is still a little raw after all this time.

It was true. During witch trials if your soulmate was the same gender that fast tracked you to being killed. Things really only got better during the civil war when a war hero was revealed to have a soulmate of the same gender. Since then it was seen as somewhere between a malady and a friendship. If you married someone else and remained close to your soulmate that was just fine, but if you refused it could get you sent away. It was wrong but it certainly beat drowning or hanging.

It also made for some interesting arrangements. It wasn’t entirely uncommon to see an advertisement in the paper talking about ‘two young bachelors seeking two young women for lavender and tea’ lavender and tea meaning a sham marriage and living together.

“What’s the great Spot Conlon’s name then?” He honestly hopped it was something ridiculous. 

“On paper? Theodore Conlon. My mother called me Oisín though. Téodóir if I made her mad at me.” He grins, most likely at the memory of causing some sort of trouble.

“Oisín?” Racetrack cocks his head to one side. 

“It means fawn, which is what she went by.” He explains. “People who didn’t speak Irish had a hard time with Sadhbh and she had these huge dark eyes that made her look like a deer that’d been trapped as a person so Fawn eventually stuck to her. To her it was like calling me ‘baby’.”  
“If um…” Racetrack isn’t sure how to offer support out loud. Usually he did it just by being near someone and hoping they understood, but he wanted to be blatant here. If Spot was alright with talking about it he was okay with hearing about it. 

“I made her move. She was still living in Brooklyn when she met her soulmate and while Brooklyn has always been more progressive than Manhattan I all but sent her away because I was afraid someone would hurt her. Some little cottage in the middle of nowhere up north. Basically orphaned myself, I guess. Wrote for years but I couldn’t visit often. Watching her die would be too much. Her wife sent me her last letter when she died. The key mom always carried too. I wrote her for what felt like a month before she passed away too. I still own that little cottage.” He frowns in confusion. “Don’t know why I keep it up.”

“My mother died because her lungs got eaten away at the textile mill.” He says it a touch too quietly for his own liking. He doesn’t want to seem bothered by it. He doesn’t want to seem bothered by anything. “She just couldn’t get enough air. Survived Viking raiders, getting taken over by the English, and the famine just to die because of some fiber.”

“Vikings?” Spot raises an eyebrow. “Tough old lady.”

“Hey you’ve got a sword on your wall, pretty tough yourself. When were you born anyway?” A not so subtle change of topic. They both probably need it. 

Spot looks around the room as if it can answer him. “Uh, 1760? I think? Wasn’t born in the United States and Brooklyn was being called Brookland by the English who had taken it from the Danish who called it Breuckelen.”

“You’re 139?” Racetrack squawks, sure it seemed obvious but having the actual number is mind blowing. 

“You can do math that fast?” He seems more impressed by that than anything.

“That ain’t the point!” True, he isn’t thousands of years old but a century was almost unfathomable to Racetrack. He sometimes wonders if he’ll last a decade after he ages out.

“I guess? You kind of stop keeping track when everyone who would have known is dead.” He shrugs.

The weight of it hits Racetrack like a moving train. “That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Spot suddenly eyes him dubiously. “How old are you?” 

“….As old as you want me to be?” He isn’t about to freak out his soulmate on his very first day of knowing him.

“Smart.” He laughs. “You’ll hear sadder. See sadder. But even when it’s not worth it, it will be because you’ll just keep going. Everyone thinks there’s some sort of deep secret to going on forever. You just do. It’s the same as if you were normal. Same goals. Same everything. Every little that dies of some flu rips you up the same and every one that grows up to be a pretty ok guy makes you sure you chose the right thing to do with eternity. But now I guess eternity has a time limit.” 

He blinks as he processes the poetic words. “Well that’s deep as shit.” 

“Thanks I’ve had time to work on sounding cool.” Spot winks and shoots him a grin.

Racetrack breaks into a fit of giggles and hides his face in Spot’s chest. There he can feel the fluttering of his chest and hear the rumble of his laugh. When he pulls back to look at Spot’s face he finds that Spot is doing the same. Glancing at his lips and eyes half-lidded he leans in to steal the first of what he hopes to be a million more kisses.

“Hey Jackass!” Hotshot throws the door open before the two can have their moment. Race jumps and hides his face in Spot’s neck and whatever the look on Spot’s face is, is enough to make Hotshot stammer. “Oh. Oh! S-sorry! Never-mind!” He slams the door and a little voice can be heard outside.

“Didja find ‘em?” Graves asks.

“Uh, Yeah. He and Race are uh. Talkin. About stuff? Hey have we been to Steeplechase recently?” A quick save.

An excited gasp and the sound of footsteps soon leaves them alone again.

“He’s a good friend, only the best can make ya want to skin ‘em a-“

Spot places both hands on the side of his face and pulls him in for a kiss. It isn’t rough, but it’s desperate. Painfully so. It’s as if Racetrack can taste a centuries worth of longing on his tongue.

“Sorry, didn’t wanna risk another interruption.” His cheeks are a bright pink, probably the first time they’ve been so in over a hundred years. 

Racetrack tugs at his shirt to pull him closer. “Do it again and we’ll be even.” 

Racetrack leans in to meet him and sighs when Spot’s fingers find their way to his hair. There must be something to this soulmate business if all of his weaknesses were already being found out like this. He’s not sure what it’ll mean for the two of them. Spot will have to make plans for when he finally ages out. Racetrack will end up spending so much time in Brooklyn that he may need to find someone to take his place as second in Manhattan. 

This feels right though. Spot is easy to talk to, easy to hold, and most importantly he got him. 

“I hope I was worth the wait.” He smiles when he pulls away. 

“I’ve always known you would be.” His voice is so soft, so honest.

Racetrack can feel his ears go red. “You can’t just say that about someone you just met!” He snatches the pillow and smacks a laughing Spot with it. “Sappy old bastard!”

Spot can barely speak through his laughter. “Y-you’re the one asking for kisses!” 

“Oh god, if you write me dumb love letters or something I’ll…” He’ll swoon, but that’s not the point. “Oh my god.”

“Well now I have to.” His shoulders shake as he effortlessly steals Race’s fluffy weapon. “I’ll write about your eyes, how they look like forget-me-nots in the morning when they're covered in dew. I’ll write about your cat-like curiosity, how it tells of the intelligence you seem to be trying to hide. Most of all I’ll write about how easy you are to tease.”

“I’m gonna….I’m gonna set this place on fire and kill both of us.” He hides his face in his hands and all but lays on Spot. After a moment of fuming quietly he mumbles. “Put ‘em in the second stall at the racetrack.”

“Of course.” He promises.

From where Racetrack laid he can feel Spot’s heart steadily beating in his chest. He’s pretty sure it’s now his favorite sound. Even if it is attached to a sappy old bastard.


	5. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short little epilogue type thing.

Racetrack had gone bright red to find a note just where he’d asked for it to be left. If the boys had clamored over hearing his heart beating again they’d kill to read this. So Race waited until all of the nosy bastards were sleeping before sneaking up to Jack’s penthouse and reading the letter by starlight. He could practically hear Spot's voice as he read:

Antonio, 

While neither of us are naturally men of elevated language you would be deserving of words stolen from on high and penned by someone with more grace than what time would give to anyone. 

I find myself distracted by my ever-beating heart so often now, yet at the same time all of those distractions bring my thoughts to you. When it quickens at the excitement of a friend or when it slows as I relax I think of what you have given me by wandering into my life. 

Your smile in particular seems to hasten its beats. I look forward to spending a true lifetime finding out all of the ways I can bring about that smile. 

-T.S.C.

P.S. How’s that for a dumb love letter? As I write this Hotshot is pretending he’s not crying like a little. Apparently he’d been more scared of getting old without me than I thought. A lot of them had been based on their reactions. I was kind of expecting them to be bummed about me aging out, not a bunch of crybabies who were actually happy about it. 

Racetrack read it over and over, memorizing every single detail until he could barely keep his eyes open. 

He wanted to smack Spot over the head for being so oblivious. Of course his boys wanted him to age out. They were probably terrified of the prospect of leaving Spot behind and not getting to see him with his soulmate. Those boys were just as much a family as the Manhattan newsies were.

Race yawned and glanced over to where Jack laid sleeping. Without a heartbeat and with how still the guy slept you could mistake him for a corpse. Race wants more for Jack than to be a perpetually stressed kid looking after other kids. Granted, Jack was good at it but that didn't justify it. Every year there was some new horror story that Jack tried his best to make better by working harder, stealing, or just trying to keep morale up until it was over. The guy deserves someone he can lean on. 

Crutchie too, though Race figured the guy will have as fast a turn around as Race did when his heart finally stills. No way Crutchie’s soulmate wasn’t just waiting to find him. The kid practically oozed sunshine out of his pores.

The other boys probably felt the same way judging by how excited they’d been when Race had come home with his heart beating. They weren't even mad when Al started collecting money from all the suckers who had placed bets on who Race's soulmate would be. Though he'd been since he hadn't been allowed to bet. His money would have been on the winning horse of the next big race. 

He’s not sure when he drifted off but as he woke up the next morning he quickly folded the letter away and grinned out at the sunrise. 

There was no question of where he was selling today.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's short, but it does set up me maybe someday doing a thing with jack

**Author's Note:**

> Once I get a few wips done I might end up doing more with this universe because it combines some of my favorite things: really specific historical facts and being a soft squishy romantic.


End file.
